


wading

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Deathfic, Gen, post-a4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 22:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15783348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: peter parker was seventeen when he pushed open the doors to anthony edward stark’s funeral, rain on his face.





	wading

**Author's Note:**

> this was wholly mol's fault :)   
> prompt: https://twitter.com/thotbarnes/status/1032762573366677504

they won. 

_ we won _ , peter thinks to himself, screams to himself— _ we won, we did, we won it _ — fists clenched shut, eyes clenched shut,  _ we did win _ . stubby, broken nails digging into his palms. you didn’t win. you’ve won nothing. you have just prolonged your suffering. his voice. his eyes shoot open.  

they had won. succeeded, triumphed—been victorious—come out on  _ top _ — beaten thanos down. took the pain he inflicted on them, and gave it back, hundred times over. blood, blood, blood, all the effort they had put in to make him bleed a little. more blood. spilling. painting the ground  _ red _ . 

they  _ had  _ won. 

  
  


they hadn’t won. 

they had won  _ the fight _ . the battle. they saved the world, the  _ worlds _ , the universe— but they had not won. just like he said.  _ you’ve won at nothing, you puny thing. _ his voice continues to haunt peter to—  _ you’ve won at nothing, you puny thing.... you puny thing...... you puny t h i n g............  _

stark’s broken body—caved in— _ why was it so— so—? _ the whistling. static crackling—  _ friday? friday? is he okay? _ a pause, longer than— than it should be. electricity burning his palms but he can barely feel it over the pounding in his head. a relieved smile, but the wrinkle still in his brow.

no heartbeat. no— bright blue glow. either. nothing. darkness. silence. 

and they came, everyone else, but at the time they had just been towering shadows that wanted to take mr. stark. no, not him.  _ come down, peter. he’s dead. _ no, no he’s not, no he’s  _ not _ ! he’s  _ not dead _ — no heartbeat, no arc reactor, darkness and silence. wobbling. no wobbling. nothing. 

when they finally wrestled mr. stark away from him, dragged him back home kicking and screaming—  _ we won, peter. we won. _ no we didn’t, he wanted to scream. we didn’t win. we lost. we lost. we lost we lost we lost we lost we lostwelostwelostwelostwelostwelost

 

that was weeks ago. he feels more alive, but not— alive yet. did that even make sense? it felt like he was wading through an ocean of something but, but at least he was wading. moving. alive. he came back and they told him the captain was dead too and some part of him cracked and he just sank, until he couldn’t stand sinking down, and began to swim. 

sam walks in. everything seems so  _ loud _ and  _ bright _ nowadays. everything— so— perfect. so goddamn perfect and they  _ won _ but no, they didn’t win. we lost. we lost. we lost. sam walks in. leading a blank sergeant bucky barnes behind him— he’s still drowning, peter knows. he knows that look. his eyes are fractured. some parts of him are missing, numb, gone forever; and the existing part of him just continues to sink and sink and sink and continue sinking until he can’t see the blue light of the surface anymore. 

weeks ago. he hadn’t spoken since. hadn’t moved, unless in response to steve’s voice— they thought it would work to play one of steve’s old recording on the tv when he woke up, only resulting in a trashed room and a sergeant james bucky barnes on the floor. 

 

one by one, they filter in. sam and bucky, and then natasha, and then clint and his family, and scott, and his family, and hank pym, and everyone just walking in, dressed in black, head to toe. he doesn’t keep track, staring at the doorway so, so, so... empty. so gone. so much pain, and sorrow, in one room, suffocating him like— like— like— 

he bolts out. 

fresh air, fresh air, air, just need air. wind slapping him in the face, piercing harsh rain yet he still can’t find  _ air _ . so much air, but none for him. no air, no air, he swings up on top of the building; maybe air there? air up higher? no— with the ship during the first fight, clinging to the ship, the higher he’d gone the harder it was to breathe. but no air on the ground, either. 

a metallic clang. the sergeant pushing out of the doors. curling up into a ball on the ground. in instants his grey shirt is soaked, overgrown hair plastering to his forehead. moaning that echoes almost too loudly in his ears. 

steve. steve. steve, come back, i can’t live without you. words surface through the, the whimpers. curled up, knees to his chest, rocking back and forth. head tilted toward the sky, eyes rimmed red, unblinking despite the lashing rain.  _ i can’t live without. i don’t want to live without you. i need you. _ please, please, please, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease— 

  
  


it will not rain forever, mr. stark said to him, once. he tilts his head back like the sergeant is doing, the endless swirling grey mass. rain falling from nothing. even the grey clouds look lifeless. he feels, he feels lifeless. nothing left for him to do.  _ wrong _ . nobody left to tell him what to do. 

nobody left to tell him what to do, and he feels so lost. which way do i go, mr. stark? always not following mr. stark’s orders but when he’s not here to give him orders, he doesn’t know... he doesn’t, he’s so lost. nothing to follow, nothing to not follow. 

nothing to do. he’s rocking back and forth too. the sergeant is standing now. he probably feels worse, peter thinks. nobody talked about it, but— they. they were in love. anybody with eyes could see it. but nobody said anything. 

“feels like losing an arm,” the sergeant says finally, voice rough. peter startles, falls off the roof. hits the ground, cracking.  _ i deserve it _ , a voice in his head says. he’s in a puddle. the sergeant’s eyes are haunted, wide. red. seeing things that weren’t there. 

or maybe, seeing things that were there. just only he could see it. 

the sergeant turns away. 

“losing more than an arm,” so quiet, lost in the pat-pat-pat of the rain. “didn’t hurt this much. the first time. hurt. so much. i lost him so many times.” 

he’s not drowning anymore, peter realizes. straight back, headed back into the building. he has his head above the water, treading, but he’s searching for a reason to keep treading. 

and he? peter? he’s not wading, no, he’s still drowning, floating just beneath the surface. not enough conviction to break through. he can’t breathe, he’s not a fish. needs a reason to keep swimming up. up. up. 

 

the bells chime. the sun breaks through the greyness. so bright, shimmering through the water. his clothes cling to him with the rain but the sun breaks through, warm on his face, steam. buoying him up. up. nothing says you have to stay underneath the surface. 

 

the bells are chiming. 

his phone is still in his pocket. he’s soaked. it’s soaked, it buzzes in his hand when he turns it on. water from his hair drips onto the screen. 

his thumbs move across the screen slowly, tap tap tap. it won’t send, it will never reach who it’s meant for. 

_ i don’t wanna go _ . 

he puts his phone back into his pocket. buttons his jacket. i don’t wanna go. stands in front of the doors, he can see everyone, everyone is waiting. 

peter parker was seventeen when he pushed open the doors to anthony edward stark’s funeral, rain on his face. 

**Author's Note:**

> on twitter @[homofilm](https://twitter.com/)!


End file.
